


As One Door Closes

by Britpacker



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-13
Updated: 2011-07-20
Packaged: 2018-08-15 17:02:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8064793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Britpacker/pseuds/Britpacker
Summary: The day they’ve been dreading comes closer.  Perhaps change doesn’t have to be bad news – even for Malcolm Reed.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** Standard disclaimers and acceptance of blame: not mine, except for the mistakes!  
>  Spoilers, 1.04 "Strange New World"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They knew it was coming. Now what are they going to do about it?

He was dozing when the comm. sizzled into life, the strong voice of Captain Archer unusually hoarse through the fog enveloping his brain. "Senior officers, report to the Situation Room immediately."

"Aw, shit!" As he struggled to get upright with tangled sensor readings being shot out to his limbs, Malcolm heard the disgruntled yelp of his long-time partner cut through loud and clear. The hiss of the shower, a soothing presence in his recent somnolent state, shut off abruptly to be replaced by the thudding of a young elephant trying to escape his tiny bathroom. "How come he always does that when I'm covered in soap?"

"Because half the crew are now peeping 'round their doors in the hope of seeing their gorgeous Chief Engineer dashing through the hallway in his smalls," the Armoury Officer shouted back helpfully as he wrenched a pair of black sweats and a red t-shirt over his own. 

That won him a snort as, nude and dripping, Charles Tucker the Third stomped into view, a sight guaranteed to make Enterprise's most disciplined human mind go blank. His ill-humour dissolved by the look of raw lust that suffused his lover's angular features, the blond snagged his abandoned singlet and shorts, cold fear weighting his gut at the potential meaning of a late-night intrusion from the boss. "Think Johnny's got news from Command?"

"No dear, I expect he wants a game of sodding tiddlywinks." The blue gleam of mischief in his storm-coloured eyes belying his weary tone, Reed swept a pair of especially ratty jeans from the top of his laundry pile ( _and how does the bugger always manage to leave his least reputable items with my washing?_ he wondered vaguely) and threw them at the other man. "I realise they've seen your assets displayed in the past, Commander, but you're private property now. Cover up!"

"Or you won't be responsible for where your hands wind up?" With a lascivious grin, Tucker eased into the worn garment, offering a hand to his companion before the fly was fully zipped. "Guess I'd better put a shirt on too?"

"Take this." One of his brighter possessions, scarlet decked with little yellow parasols, hit him square on the temple. "And you can drop it in your own laundry later."

"Figure folks know it's not likely to be yours, Mal." The younger man laughed, sufficiently distracted to leave his hand snugly wrapped in Trip's until they reached the turbolift. "And I only wear these things 'cause you can't seem to resist ripping them off me the minute we're alone."

"If only the Quartermaster would stop sewing the bloody buttons back on." They were joking to conceal the knots in their stomachs, but, Reed conceded, they knew each other, after nearly ten years' serving aboard the same ship, much too well to be deceived. Nervously the dark-haired man peeked under his lashes at his companion, only to find ocean-blue eyes gazing down at him from an open expression of heartbreaking concern. 

"We'll be okay," Tucker whispered as the door opened and they were deposited on the bridge, the Gamma shift crew all bolt upright at their stations and stoutly resisting the temptation to check which of their senior officers had arrived. "News, Cap'n?"

He more felt than heard Malcolm's sharp intake of breath, so close did the smaller man stand as they reached the display table in the silent Situation Room. Scrubbing a large hand over his face, Archer nodded.

"I guess it's no surprise," he stated, betrayed by the quiver in his voice once they were all gathered, solemn as any group of mourners around the grave. "They've decided to decommission Enterprise at the end of the year."

"They're only giving us three months' notice?" Travis Mayweather protested, and Malcolm silently applauded the discipline of the night-shift who didn't spin around to gawp at the horrified boomer. "This means we're heading home right now, doesn't it Sir?"

"I'll give instructions to the helm soon as we're finished, and announce it shipwide before breakfast." Their downcast expressions earned a reluctant smile that only emphasised how miserable their C.O. really felt. "We knew the old lady was only intended for ten years' service, but it's been one hell of a ride."

"Sure has." Looking around the faces of his friends - his family, Tucker corrected fiercely - he knew the past ten years had been the greatest ever, and there wasn't one of them ( _except maybe T'Pol, and she'd be lying_ ) who wouldn't say the same.

He finished up on his neighbour, and his heart skipped at least three beats. If he'd never served on Enterprise, he wouldn't have known Malcolm Reed. And that was going to make the rest of his life worth living.

Unless...

_Don't go there. You said it yourself, we'll be okay. You'll make damn sure you're okay._

"What happens to us?" Hoshi Sato had changed, he thought, perhaps most of all; the terrified girl who'd squealed when they first hit Warp 4 now an officer confident enough to ask the sixty four million dollar question nobody else dared address. Archer's broad shoulders lifted as slowly as if the whole ship's weight was pressed onto them.

"We'll be contacted in the next few days," he quoted, too generous to pull his Chief Engineer and Helmsman on their muffled derisive snorts. "We're not going to be stuffed and put in the museum, I do know that, but what they'll offer us individually..."

" _Museum,_ Sir?"

The effect of their Englishman's pale, penetrating stare had not lessened through familiarity. Jonathan Archer, foremost representative of a planet, shuffled like a guilty schoolboy.

"They'll take Enterprise apart, polish her up then put her on display to the public. They're building a special hall to hold her."

"Sonofabitch!" Trip exclaimed, his biggest grin breaking out as he high-fived an equally excited Mayweather. "Ain't that the coolest thing?"

"How absolutely ghastly!"

Sometimes he got so - so _British_ , Tucker mused, aware the younger man was oblivious to the effect of his word-choice on his partner's belly. Often Malcolm used Americanism to fit in with his crewmates, but when he was caught unawares, his heritage gleamed out.

Trip adored it; and their resident linguist, he noticed, positively glowed with secret glee. "Malcolm?"

"It's so _undignified_ , Commander." Yes, unthinkingly the officer despite the late hour and rumpled civvies. "Setting her up in a cold hanger for the hoi polloi to traipse around, jabbing their sticky fingers into her consoles and dropping their hotdog wrappers in the halls. I dare say they want some personal effects lying around in heaps to make the _visitor experience_ more _authentic_ , too."

"That can be settled later." T'Pol's eyebrow did the violent ascent toward the hairline Archer associated with extreme displeasure, enough to lift his spirits even as his Tactical Officer's astute assessment triggered wavelets of alarm through the rest of the senior staff. "It's going to take months for the boys at Jupiter Station to tooth-comb her; we'll all be settled into new assignments long before the opening ceremony."

"And how much do I _not_ wanna be at that party?"

"Sorry, Trip, it's mandatory." The engineer's theatrical groan of dismay raised a few weary smiles, which felt like the most optimistic moment to end. "Command will be contacting everyone individually in the next few days. Try not to worry about the future 'til you have to; the crew will be taking their lead from us now more than ever, alright?"

A murmur of reluctant _Yes, Sir's_ swept over the Situation Room. Tiredly, Archer let his shoulders sag. "Dismissed," he muttered, not quite quick enough turning away to hide the glint of an unshed tear in his eye.


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waiting. It's always the worst part - Tucker hopes.

The atmosphere was weird. Tucker hated it.

Three days had passed since Captain Archer's shipwide decommissioning announcement, and he was starting to feel like a character in a corny twentieth century soap opera, swamped by the tumult of other folks's emotions. Those who'd heard from Starfleet were by turn jabberingly excited and lip-tremblingly lost in thought: those yet to hear their fates sunk in melancholy so deep he found himself yearning for a Romulan fleet to decloak off the port bow just to shake them out of it.

God knew, he wasn't much better. Senior officer or not, he'd been setting a pretty poor example of stoic fortitude around Engineering as he waited for news!

Malcolm, naturally, looked to be handling it just fine. The sole discernable advantage of Reed training, he said. If only he wasn't taking it to extremes and hiding his alarm from his lover as well.

Or, Trip amended, brutally honest, trying to. Mal could fool a Klingon into believing the Empire had signed a treaty of eternal peace and brotherhood with Andoria, but he couldn't convince the man who knew him best he was fine when he patently wasn't - physically or mentally.

Slumping into his desk chair he flipped on the monitor, turning straight to his mail. His heart rate stuttered at the top message, its plain black print bouncing out of the screen to smack him in the eye: **Starfleet Personnel Department. Most Urgent.**

Charles Tucker the Third sucked in a slow, deep breath and quietly cursed himself for not paying more attention when T'Pol tried to teach him meditation. If he'd studied the Vulcan Mistress's classes better, maybe he could've stopped his finger wobbling as it touched the necessary key.

*

Fifteen minutes late he was hitting his lover's doorchime, hopping from foot to foot yet calmer in the head than he had felt in the weeks since Admiral Leonard had first advised Enterprise's senior staff they might face impending redundancy. He had known instantly what he had to do. Deep down, he figured he'd probably known it all along.

Now he had to talk Malcolm around.

Which wouldn't be easy, he acknowledged, striking the chime a little harder however little difference it made to the volume, if the damn fool stubborn Limey wouldn't open his damn door.

Well, Trip decided, he had the key code and he'd used it unbidden a billion times since they'd come together. If Mal didn't want him to come in, he'd have changed it.

And he hadn't. The door slipped noiselessly across, revealing the erect figure of his partner perched on the edge of his chair, in uniform save for incongruously bare feet, his shuttered gaze riveted on the bright computer screen. He didn't acknowledge Trip's entry: unless, the older man thought, you accepted the small softening of his posture as a special kind of _Malcolm_ welcome.

"You got something?" he enquired, throwing himself onto the perfectly-made bunk. Reed grunted.

"I got a position with the Warp Research Division," he continued, too loudly. 

He thought he'd gotten pretty good at Malcolm-prediction over the last ten years: figured he'd get a megawatt smile and a joyful "Congratulations!" and then maybe a kiss or three to celebrate. 

He really, Tucker considered in the cavernous silence that consumed the room, ought to know better.

The chair squealing beneath him, Malcolm inched his way round to stare, too thunderstruck to hold his Commander Distant façade.

"The bastards. The sodding miserable bloody bastards. They haven't given you a command? Trip, that's outrageous!"

"Huh?" Usually he thought Mal breathtakingly sexy when he got riled, but for once Tucker was just too taken aback to enjoy the ferocious passion contorting the sharply-angled face. Reed jerked out of his seat, pacing a suddenly shrunken cabin like an enraged tiger. 

"Damn it, Trip, you've proven your worth! Any crew would be honoured to have you as their captain, what are those cretins thinking..."

"Whoa, darlin'!" The only way to stop his man was to bodily grab him; something Trip did with trepidation, fearful that in his current agitation the lover might lose out to the finely-honed fighting machine in Enterprise's compact head of security. 

He got lucky. Malcolm blinked, shaken out of his rant by the light pressure of an arm across his back. "They offered me the Indefatigable, an' I said no. I get to keep the fourth pip they offered with her, but you know how I feel 'bout sittin' in the big chair. 

"Hell, it's bad enough fillin' in for Johnny when he's off being First Diplomat to the galaxy. Doin' the job full-time would send me loopy faster 'n that alien pollen I sniffed before tryin' to murder T'Pol! I chose Starfleet because it had the biggest engines to play with; nothing else."

He wasn't holding his boyfriend tight, yet he felt all the bristling fury leak out, leaving the perfect body to sag in almost post-coital lethargy against his. "Guess not many Starfleet officers would turn down the top job," Trip crooned, one hand sliding into his man's thick sable hair. "But it's not for me, and the folks back at base know it."

"Oh?" The soft question was muffled against his shirt. 

"Yeah. I'm gonna get my hands on the next generation of warp reactors: do for the Warp Seven project what the Capn's daddy did for ours; just a little quicker, now the Vulcans aren't so hostile."

"Oh, I don't think they'd appreciate the suggestion that emotion clouded their judgement, Commander. Will you _stop_ messing with my hair!"

"You got a hot date or somethin'?" 

"You never know your luck, Mistah Tuckah." Though his lips were smiling, the Englishman's expressive eyes were sad when, with a couple of fingers beneath the firm jaw, Trip raised them to meet his hopeful ones. 

"Darlin' what's wrong?" he asked, his heart twisted inside-out at the misery he read, oh, so briefly, in those wonderful grey-to-blue-and-back-again orbs. "Haven't you heard yet? Jon did say it@d take some time..."

Sharp teeth sank deep into a thin, well-cut bottom lip. "Promotion to full commander; and they've offered me the First's cabin on Colossus," Reed muttered, a sharp jerk of the head enough to free his captive chin. Trip's heart dropped out through the worn soles of the boots Malcolm had lovingly polished that morning.

"But I thought... I mean, that's fantastic!" he stuttered, his leaden limbs useless to prevent the smaller man's escape. "They're forgetting the whole Section 31 thing? I mean, you were so sure... Hell, maybe you'll make it to captain after all! I'm so happy for you, Malcolm."

Caught up in his enthusiastic lying, he didn't notice the slump of British shoulders. "Are you?" Malcolm asked in a small voice. He set about glaring a hole through the bulkhead, blinking hard against the telltale wetness around the eyeballs until he was certain of his self-control. 

Then he swung around, the iceberg in his gut thawed at the edges by the misery engulfing his partner's beautiful face. "I've turned it down," he said, chin lifted in an unconsciously defiant tilt. "I'm having the closed pip, though."

"Y-you've done what?" He couldn't even be relieved, Trip acknowledged through the red cloud of frustration that wrapped itself around his head at the infuriating little bastard's cussed foolhardiness "Jeez Malcolm, have you gone _crazy_? You've dreamed of bein' a starship cap'n since you were a little boy, and don't pull any 'f that _it-don't-matter_ crap, because ah'm not buyin' it. They're givin' you everything you thought you'd lost, and you're throwin' it back in their faces? No way!"

It broke him apart to see such anguish laid bare in the gorgeous eyes he loved to drown in. "I can't lose you, Trip," Reed whispered, suddenly fascinated by his exposed toes. "I _won't_ lose you."

"Baby you're never gonna lose me." His voice broke as he lurched across to drag the lonely little figure into a crushing embrace. "Hell, I'm gonna have a home around San Fran, and it can be yours anytime you're in the right star system. You don't hafta give up your dreams to be with me, Malcolm. Look at Crewman Moore - or Susie Robbins, she's married with two kids and she's served the whole ten years of the mission. If they can do it, so can we. I won't let you give up this chance for me!"

"And if it's for me?" He'd known the Yank would be outraged, Reed admitted. Only Trip knew what he'd invested in his Starfleet dream: facing down the contempt of a disappointed father and a mother's implicit dismay to chase a fantasy he'd thrown away on a chimera of _usefulness_ to Section 31. Only Trip knew how guilt and self-loathing had gnawed his guts over years believing everything lost by a moment's misjudgement. 

Only Trip understood the enormity of Starfleet's unconditional offer. Redemption. In his own eyes, if nobody else's.

"Those were the dreams of an isolated child desperate to escape," he murmured, absently linking his arms around the engineer's trim waist. He was in control now, he realised, conscious of the slight shock that still rippled down his spine every time his superior officer accepted private direction from him. Until his shins hit the edge of the low bunk and a small shove knocked him flat on his back, Trip didn't suspect a thing. "I've grown up since then."

"And you've grown beautifully darlin', but that's not the point." Why was he arguing? He didn't want a long-distance love affair, never knowing when the centre of his universe was grappling with some plug-ugly alien giant on a miserable chunk of space-junk. "You deserve to make captain, and you'd be a damn fine one - better than me, maybe even as good as ol' Johnny. Are you _sure_ you're doing the right thing?"

"Eagle Scout's honour." Trip didn't want him to sail off among the stars; it was written all over the daft lummox's lovely face, and Malcolm's heart soared out among them to see it. "My dreams are different now. Want to hear them?"

Trip's tongue swept his lips, darkening them to the hue of rose petals after rain, and he couldn't resist swooping in for a tender kiss. "I dream of a house of my own - roots, if you like - and of a tall, handsome blond with four shiny pips on his uniform and a half-built super-engine chugging away in a tumbledown shed I can't go near because the mess inside gives me the vapours. I dream of lazy Sunday mornings in bed, with tea and newspapers, and biscuit crumbs in the sheets. I've had enough of deep space, Trip. I want a life on Earth, and I want to share it with you."

It took three big swallows before Tucker had the breath to respond, awed by the quiet intensity behind his beloved's solemn declaration. "Sounds a lot like my dream," he choked out past the water polo ball lodged in his throat. "A big ramblin' old house with a white picket fence and a hammock swingin' in the garden... a big bathtub to soak in after tough days at the office, and a small, dark an' sexy weapons expert to share it with. Maybe we'd have a couple of kids - hell, how about adding a dog or cat someday!"

The narrow, sensually-formed lips thinned into a fine line before breaking out into the biggest grin Trip had ever seen grace that handsome face. "You'd have more chance with a pet at the moment, love, but... when we're settled..."

"No rush." Who was he kidding; the biggest smile in the quadrant was surely the one just about breaking his own jaw. "Sounds like we're pretty much on the same page here, Mister Reed."

"When it really matters, aren't we always?" Starry eyes as bright as silver dollars were roaming over his face, filled with the same delirious wonder Trip knew must be shining in his. "They offered me a post in R&D _if you've ventured far enough, Lieutenant-Commander_. I suppose over the years, I've come to envisage myself beavering away in labs blasting simulated Klingons instead of the flesh-and-blood kind. So we're really going to do it? Settle down?"

"Yeah." It sounded weird.

_Screw that. It sounds incredible._

There was just one thing missing from the future building itself in Charles Tucker III's mind; a bright glint of metal in a strategic location. "Um, Mal, I'm thinking there might be somethin' we've missed in those dreams of ours," he said, his hesitancy bringing the sweet little furrow of alarm to his companion's broad brow. "That tall blond guy... is he just a partner or could you see him bein' a husband someday?"

All the saliva in his mouth dried instantaneously as a single thought fired itself from Malcolm Reed's brain to the just-visible tip of his tongue. It was at best either a dangerous or a monumentally stupid question to ask: at worst, potentially both, yet the way Trip was gazing up at him, wide-eyed and hopeful as Porthos with the scent of cheese in his nostrils, it simply had to be asked. "Er - Trip, is that by any chance a proposal?"

Tongues damped lips in perfect unison. "It could be," the engineer murmured, feathering a fingertip from the peak of a chiselled cheekbone to the perfect bow of the upper lip. "If you'd like it, I mean." <

Starbursts exploded in heart and belly as his answer was expelled with a hiss of long-held breath. "I'd like it," Reed affirmed, tilting his face into the lingering touch. "I'd really, _really_ like it..."

"Me too." He felt giddy; like he wanted to laugh and cry and scream all at once. Trip settled for planting a delicate kiss on those upturned lips instead. "Marry me, Malcolm."

"Yes."

Dazzled eyes locked. "Soon?" the Southerner breathed.

"Before we're decommissioned?" the Englishman supplied. 

"It'll make Johnny's mission to marry us. That's if you want him performing the ceremony, 'f course."

"There's nobody I'd choose above him." Primarily because if Jonathan Archer, Enterprise's rock over ten long years, were standing in front of him reciting the ancient lines, Malcolm supposed he'd have to believe it was real. "Ask him in the morning?"

"Before breakfast. We'll ask him about property around San Fran, too."

"Oh, God!" Using one hand to support himself on Trip's chest, Malcolm tried to hide his face in the other. "House hunting! It's going to be a nightmare!"

"Guess we'll argue plenty." He could hear the mirth in the other man's voice and somehow it triggered an answering shimmer through him. "Gonna be fun."

"We're not supposed to enjoy fighting."

"Malcolm, that's your daddy talkin', and far as as he's concerned, folks aren't s'posed to enjoy anything!" While he was pondering the indubitable truth, Trip rolled them smoothly, a quick adjustment bringing his groin into sweet alignment with the smaller man's.

"Isn't there some promise I'm meant to make about worshippin' your body now?" he growled, managing to look irresistibly sexy while waggling his eyebrows like a madman. What Malcolm intended as a tut somehow emerged as a long, low moan.

"That's - oh! - part of the marriage vows, you halfwit," he got out between pants as their hands clashed over zippers and buttons. "And isn't it _honour_ , not worship?"

"Same difference." Jumpsuits were despatched with regulation boxers; shirts, tees and tanks took a little longer - and a good deal of mutually pleasurable rubbing around. "Anyway, this real smart Tactical Officer I know - yeah, that's good! - keeps goin' on about me learning to be more thorough in things."

"Admirable theory." Disentangling one hand from Trip's short hair, Malcolm snatched the inoffensive little tube that always stood close to his bed. "Feel free to practise in any way - mmmm, like that - you like."

Trip's groggy "Thank y' kindly darlin'," was the last semi-coherent sentence either man formed that night.

Much later, spooned around his fiancé and measuring time by the man's long, level breathing, Trip allowed himself to drift toward sleep in the mellow mood of an ancient philosopher. Who would have thought the closure they had dreaded would open up doors to exactly the future life he'd secretly longed for?

Their time on Enterprise, Admiral Forrest had declared on launch day, could prove to be the greatest years of their lives. Once, he might have believed it.

Not now. With decommissioning on the horizon, Charles Tucker III could sleep easier than ever, knowing all the best was yet to come.


End file.
